


Du'énágu juu'tii'da {Don't give up}

by JoCarthage



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Therapy, Very brief and sweet miluca, this is a malex fic but I refuse to do Maria dirty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: Alex's therapist tells him to write down 10 things that make him happy.He ends-up at the Airstream.This takes place between 2x1 and 2x2, when Alex knows Michael is working on building a relationship with Maria.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 153
Kudos: 310





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Being real, this is an assignment my therapist gave me last week. So I decided to make Alex Manes do it.
> 
> Also, I made a list of Mescalero phrases here from the Mescalero Apache Tribe's Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/mescaleroapachetribe/photos) if you feel like incorporating them into your own version of Alex Manes: https://jocarthage.tumblr.com/post/614682669219971072/mescalero-apache-phrases

Alex pulled into park beside the Airstream in Sander's junkyard and looked at the pile of folders scattered on the passenger seat beside him. Red, manila, and navy blue were for Project Shepherd. Air Force blue were for his actual work. Peeking out from them was a hot pink folder.

Alex glowered at it. 

Lo, his civilian therapist in Albuquerque, had handed him it to him last month with an evil smirk that made her septum piecing glint. He'd managed, through a mix of crazy alien nonsense and his own finely-tuned self-distraction skills, to avoid even opening it. 

He closed his eyes hard enough to see stars. He knew what was in there. He hated that he couldn't seem to do it: what kind of broken toy couldn't fill out that a stupid worksheet? What kind of --

He jerked away from the window when a large figure knocked on it. Hand on his sidearm, he realized it was Michael, letting go of the grip with tingling fingers. Looking through the window, he felt himself smile up at him reflexively, then shoved the reaction back behind his Just Friends mask.

He raised his eyebrows and Michael took a step back, hands-up, giving him space to open the door, frowning a little. But he was back behind his own mask by the time Alex got both feet on the ground.

"Bring me more research?"

Alex was glad he had his mask secured. 

He tried to say: _Yes._

Michael wouldn't turn him away if he'd brought work. He scanned through what he could possibly pretend was in the Shepherd folders to be worth a drive out here. He struggled to think of a single excuse -- then he decided not to try. _Let's see what he does_ , whispered a tiny, hopeful part of him.

"No, it's something else." Michael's eyebrows went up, head tilting. Alex shifted his weight away from his prosthetic. "I need some help."

Michael had taken a full step towards him, hand going towards his waist before he froze, glancing into Alex's eyes before skittering away again. His voice was low, tightly controlled: "Are you ok?"

And Alex squeezed his eyes shut; of course Michael would assume he was hurt.

"I'm fine, I just --" 

He gestured to the pile of folders on the passenger seat. Michael's glanced at it, then back up at Alex, shaking his head a little in confusion.

Alex sighed: "It's hard to -- it'll be faster to show you."

He stalked around to the passenger side door, not interested in giving Michael a full view of his ass as he leaned across the seats for fear of the comments he might make -- _or not_ \-- and retrieved the fuschia folder.

Michael had followed him, fingers flicking against his leg but distance carefully maintained. His expression was blankly polite and Alex _hated_ it.

Alex thrust the folder at him, feeling his cheeks heat in the late afternoon sun.

"It's stupid, I shouldn't be putting it off, I shouldn't have put it off, but the appointment is tomorrow, and I certainly shouldn't need help doing it --"

Michael flipped it over, reading through the worksheet. Then he looked up at him under his eyelashes, a complex, confused-then-soft expression moving across his face.

"You want me to fill this out?'

"No," Alex sighed, _wouldn't that be helpful though._ He pointed to the part the therapist had already helpfully written his rank and name. "I'm supposed to fill it out. I just --"

And it felt unbearably stupid in that moment to be standing in Sander's yard, presenting his ex with a sheet in a hot pink folder titled: "10 Things That Make  Captain Alex Manes Happy." He tried to snatch it back, but Michael pressed it against his own chest, left hand spread across the flexed folder.

"Why does your therapist have you doing this? Are you depressed?"

Alex shook his head, moving weakly to try to get the folder back as Michael stepped back out of reach, fingertips just grazing the now-healed skin.

"It's not that," Alex said, _not this time,_ "This is," He shook his head, words escaping him just when he needed them most. _Again_. "You know what? Never mind. Forget I asked."

Michael's frown was real this time, before he steeled himself. He carefully shut the folder, holding it out: "If you really want it back, you can have it. Of course. But --" he worked his mouth, looking at the space between them: "If you just wanted company while you filled it out, I can -- I can do that. A friend would do that for you. And that's what we are, right?" He asked, eyes finally finding Alex's with a jolt that flitted up his stomach and right into his heart. "Friends?"

"Yeah," Alex breathed. Then he got a hold of himself. "Yeah, friends. That's -- that's why I came here. I've been putting it off forever and I thought I would be better about actually getting it done if I had some -- accountability."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's what I'm all about. Accountability."

Alex grimaced. He didn't know which of Michael's minefield of insecurities and traumas he'd managed to trigger just then. He used to solve those mistakes with a soothing touch, a kiss to that place on the side of his neck that almost made him purr. Now he just stood awkwardly and waited for Michael to let him off the hook. 

He did, muttering as he turned: "Let me get a pen."

Alex half-expected him to twiddle his fingers and call one flying through the air. But he didn't. He disappeared under the overhang of the repair area, coming back with a -- Alex snorted.

"What?" Michael asked.

Alex took the Air Force blue recruiting pen: "The recruiters know your feelings on the US Air Force?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "It's Iz's. She gets them by the boxful from the recruiters for those charity events she does." He paused, looking Alex's civilian clothes over; _so he noticed I changed on base; interesting_. "You want a different one?"

"I'm not the one with a problem with the Air Force --"

"Aren't you?" Michael asked, voice sharp, friendly mask gone like it had never been there at all: "How can you not be pissed? Aren't you mad at them for taking your leg, your 20s, everything they did and condoned being done with Project Shepherd?"

Alex ached at the pain in Michael's voice and felt his own mask slipping. He held onto it by the skin of his teeth. Sometimes he and Michael were so different in their lives Alex couldn't imagine how they would have met if not for the wonders of being a one-high school town; other times, it was like Michael was reading a script, verbatim, written by Alex's internal monologue. 

But he wasn't here to dissect his career.

"I'm just here to make sure I don't fail therapy."

Michael cracked a bright laugh, mood switching as easily as shifting gears on his truck. He covering his mouth with a broad hand and pulled it together. "'Fail' therapy, Alex? It's not a graded assignment."

Alex ducked his head. He knew it wasn't a reasonable goal to be The Best At Therapy, but damned if he didn't find the stretch of trying to impress his therapist -- with his implementation of her advice in his life, with his ability to get his assignments in on time, with his general receptivity and cheerfulness in meetings -- motivating in some bizarre, Type-A way.

Michael shrugged, continuing: "Not that I'm an expert at mental health stuff."

And there it was again, that yawning, aching part of Michael that Alex always seemed to stumble on, the part that cut himself down before someone else could.

Alex made himself say: "You're right, it isn't the point of therapy. But I think I need to have some external reason to do it? Not just have it be about me?"

And Michael's fond look was back, just a little guarded around the edges. It was a new look but also, if Alex thought about it, the core of a very, very old one.

Like Michael liked him in some kind of soft, incontrovertible, uncontroversial way.

Alex squared his shoulders: "So, you up for it?"

Michael jerked towards him like was coming in -- for a hug? A kiss? Something else? But he caught and held himself stiff and away. "Yeah, Alex. I can help." He quirked a smile at him. "Want to do this inside? It's after hours but I know Sanders is still in the shop working on the quarterly taxes."

Alex hadn't been inside the Airstream since Michael had met him there, covered in blood, wild-eyed and --

"Ok," he said.

Michael smiled and gestured him up the steps with a little bow. Alex ducked his head, hoping his blush was well-hidden by the late afternoon sunset.

He sat in the passenger seat, Michael slipping into the driver's seat, passing him an old physics textbook to write on.

Michael tapped his fingers on the wheel: "Remember, what would have been the summer after sophomore year, if we'd gotten to go to to UNM like we planned? You came back, passed out right there for like 6 hours while I was working?"

Alex worked his knuckles across the frayed stitching. He'd basically arrived after 31 hours on a Greyhound bus, given Michael a one-armed hug in full view of the other mechanics lounging around on their lunch breaks, nearly tipping over with the weight of his duffel. He'd  stumbled into the Airstream, shoved the duffel into a pillow shape and passed the fuck out.

He bit his lips. "That was a good trip."

"Yeah." Michael said. He leaned over, tapping the first line of the worksheet. "If you're taking suggestions, I would put: 'Taking naps' as the first one."

Alex scoffed. "I haven't taken a nap in --" And he shut-up. He didn't take naps unless he could see Michael. 

But it wouldn't help anything to say that.

"Ok," he said, putting it on the list.

"So, I gave you one. Now you have to write one."

Alex rolled his eyes, but making this into a game was probably the easiest way to get through it.

"Hmm," he said, tapping his pen against his lips. "Seeing my friends happy."

Something flashed across Michael's face, and Alex realized it had probably sounded like a dig about him and Maria. He clenched his jaw and and wrote it down anyway. _It's true_ , he grumbled to himself, _whether Michael believes it or not_.

He glanced over at Michael who was looking out the front window, but Alex didn't think he was looking at the splashed-watercolor sunset.

"You like music." He said, voice soft. "You love it."

Alex nodded, writing it down. "I think that counts for both numbers 3 and 4 --"

He showed him the paper:

> # _1: Taking Naps._
> 
> _#2: Seeing my friends happy_
> 
> _#3: Listening To M_ _usic._
> 
> _#4: Making music._

Michael had a shadow of a smile. "When was the last time you played?"

Alex looked up, rolling his shoulders. "I sang at a karaoke party on base last week."

"You _did?_ " Michael said, grinning.

"Yes," Alex said primly. "I sang them my very best MCR."

"Oh, let me guess, 'Helena'?"

And Alex -- he had to look down, the feeling of being seen was so strong. No one on his team had known he could sing and they'd razzed him about picking a band that had last been famous when most of them were in pre-school. And absolutely no one had expected him to pick "Helena"; it had hurt to sing it, but a good hurt, like a pulled tooth or a newly set bone. It had always been his song for lost mothers. He'd needed that last week.

"Yeah," he said and Michael nodded. Alex kept going: "I just -- it lets something out, doesn't it? Something we can't say otherwise."

"Yeah." Michael said. "So does it make you happy?"

Alex shrugged: "Not always. But seeing my friends happy doesn't always make me happy either. But on balance, generally making music makes me happier than not."

"Complex equations there, Alex."

Alex nudged his shoulder: "Says the astrophysicist."

Michael crinkled his eyes at him, then after a pause said: "So, who's turn is it now?"

"I guess number 5 can be mine," Alex said. "Let's see -- I love southwestern sunsets."

Michael tipped his head back, actually looking at the sprays of red and violet-pink and orange over the piles of half-wrecked cars. "They are something special."

Alex wrote it down.

"You love," Michael paused, "being right."

"I _do_ love being right," Alex said easily, writing it down, turning a grin over to Michael.

"I also love learning new things." He said, writing it down.

"What's something you've learned lately?" Michael asked.

_Heartbreak._ Alex thought. _I'm always learning that one fresh. How much it hurts to see you without me beside you. But that's an old lesson too._ "Hmm, I learned how to say: 'Thank you' in Mescalero."

Michael cocked his head. "Yeah? You've been on the rez recently?"

Alex shook his head. "Honestly? I was wasting time on Facebook and found their page and just, kept looking through it."

Michael was quiet for a breath: "Have you heard from your Mom lately?"

Alex shook his head, letting out a hard breath. "That is _not_ a conversation that makes me happy though, so we're getting off topic."

"Ok," Michael said, then, quietly: "How do you say it?"

"Say what?"

"'Thank you.'"

"Oh," Alex said. "It's 'ixéhe."

"Ixéhe?" Michael asked.

Alex nodded, feeling his lips twitch. "It's a tiny language, only 1500 speakers left. But it was hers, you know?"

"1500 seems like a lot for a guy who's one of three of his species in this part of the galaxy."

"Oh, I didn't mean to --"

Michael shook his head, nudging Alex with his shoulder. "I'm just teasing you."

"Huh," Alex said, narrowing his eyes. "I guess it's been a while."

"Yeah." 

Michael glanced over at the list. "You love dipping your fries into milkshakes, God help us all."

"It improves the flavor." Alex said, writing it down.

"How many you got left?" Michael said, looking at the list:

> # _1: Taking Naps._
> 
> _#2: Seeing my friends happy_
> 
> _#3: Listening To Music._
> 
> _#4: Making music._
> 
> _#5: Southwestern sunsets_
> 
> _#6: Being Right_
> 
> _#7: Learning new things_
> 
> _#8: Dipping Fries In Milkshakes At Crashdown_

"Just numbers 9 and 10 left," Alex said. "Hmm -- I love -- " and he glanced over just as a glint of sunlight caught on something in the yard and sparked off of one of Michael's curls and he thought _curly hair, blowjobs before breakfast, holding onto someone in front of a fire, holding hands in the middle of the night_ \-- "Fish."

"Fish?" Michael said, turning with a nonplussed look on his face.

"F - i - s - h." Alex wrote down. "I didn't have it very much growing up, but I was trained in DC for a summer and had fish and chips at this little Irish bar in Chinatown called Fados. It was really great."

"Oh - kay." Michael said. "Just one left?"

Alex nodded, pen tracing lightly around the "#10" on the paper.

The air in the cab was still and quiet, the space between them warm. Alex could feel how old the textbook was under his fingertips. He felt it then, a rush, the urge to lean over, to press his lips to Michael's, to climb into his lap, to make clear as he always, _always_ could what he wanted with his _body_ , to _screw_ trying to use his words, trying to be the loyal, the good friend --

"I should go." He slipped into the aisle, standing, letting himself look his fill, just for a moment of Michael's perfect silhouette against the last of the falling sunset. "I -- I really appreciated the help, Michael."

"What are friends for?"

"And I --" Alex closed his eyes, knowing Michael couldn't see what it was costing to say this, hoped he couldn't hear it in his voice. "I'm happy. For you. And Maria. I -- I meant what I said. She is great. I'm glad you'll both be happy now."

He shoved the door open, clutching the folder to his chest, feeling the stiff board fracture under the pressure. He heard a muffled: "Alex --"

And then Michael was shoving his way past the screen door, nearly tumbling down the steps, catching himself before crashing into Alex.

"That's it?"

"Thank you." Alex said, realizing he hadn't. "I'm sorry I --"

"That's not what I meant," Michael said, frowning. "I mean -- that was a lot. Do you -- need to talk or anything?"

Alex settled back on his heels a little. "I -- no? I'm fine, Michael. Thanks for asking."

Michael closed his eyes, frustrated. "You didn't say goodbye, you just decided you were done, stood-up, and left."

Alex took a breath. "You're right. Goodbye, Michael. I'll see you tomorrow at the lab."

Michael stepped towards him, arms out.

Alex stepped back.

Michael tilted his head. "Friends can hug goodbye." 

"I," Alex tried to swallow; his throat clicked. "I don't think we can, Michael."

Michael looked to the side, eyes bright. "Yeah."

Alex took a tiny step forward, foot light in the soft dirt. "I learned another phrase on the Mescalero tribal page," he said, voice low. "Du'énágu juu'tii'da."

"What's it mean?" Michael whispered.

"Don't give up."

Alex raised his hand, like he was going to trace it down Michael cheek, and stopped himself, holding it in mid-air. His voice was small, cracked when he said: "I'm waiting. If I find someone, if you find someone -- then that's how it goes. But I want you in my life as long as you're willing to be in it. However you're going to be in it. I love having you in my life. I love having Maria in my life. She's my friend and I want to see her happy. But I," he forced himself to meet Michael's eyes, "I know what my number 10 is. I love you Michael. And this moment hurts like a sucker punch after a kiss but it's going to get better. And I'm not going to give up."

It was probably the most words he'd ever said to Michael about his feelings all at once, so he turned on his heel, opened his truck's door, tossed the folder on top of the scree of paperwork. Then he drove away into the silent night, watching Michael's frozen form fade into the darkness behind him.


	2. náánduustesét {I will see you again}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael thinks about what Alex told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so touched with how many of you did my therapy homework with me! To everyone who shared their 10 things that make them happy that they can still do during quarantine, you're the reason everyone is getting 4.5k of extra fic in this one-shot verse. Please keep on sharing if you can, it's wonderful to see all the brilliant, caring, self-preserving and community protecting ways everyone is Keeping It Together During the Plague.
> 
> Also, I love Maria and she deserves the whole world.

Just after dawn the next morning, Michael pulled his truck and Airstream into the backlot of the Wild Pony. His fingers were still a little numb from the nightmares, but the feeling of the bright dawning sun on his face through the windshield burned away some of the floaty feeling that had been haunting his sober hours since Caulfield. 

He'd texted Maria after Alex had left. She'd called him immediately and it had been -- good. To hear her voice.

_Boundaries._ He repeated to himself in Isobel's voice. _You deserve nice things_.

_"You're one of the bad things that has happened to me_ ," Maria had said over the phone and _boy_ had Michael been glad to not have her see the look on his face when he replied: _"Fair."_

He shook his head. Maria would be coming out of the bar soon since he'd promised her breakfast. He hitched himself out of the truck, taking the steps into the Airstream quickly, wondering if cooking for people he liked would be on his list of 10 things.

As he pulled the cardboard egg carton from his mini-fridge, he thought about a worksheet: "10 Things That Make Dr Michael Guerin Happy." He winced at himself as he spilled egg over his thumb and onto the counter. 

He'd never get to wear the hooded doctoral robe, never get to walk or do a defense or, shit, have anyone ever treat him like someone who could be a professor -- _except Liz_ , whispered a voice inside of him, _except Alex, who never treats you like you're stupid_ \-- but he'd looked up the coursework for every astrophysics PhD program he'd ever dreamed of when he was 17, then worked his way through every assigned textbook through the interlibrary loan system, watched every video lecture, even helped edit some theses. 

Despite what Maria thought, he hadn't spent every minute of the last 10 years drunk or in trouble -- the wifi at the Sheriff's office was the fastest in town and he could usually get Max to lend him his laptop on longer stays. He'd written some Python scripts to let him crunch through petabytes of open source astral data, trying to find the kind of radio transmissions he thought his console was capable of. _Songs from home._

If anyone cared to check, updates to his code repository on GitHub strongly correlated with his time in lock-up. Not that anyone would check.

He turned the omelet, hearing Sander's low grumble of a voice: _"It's not a show, so keep it low and even and you'll be just fine."_

He saw a flash of color through the windshield and felt a smile quirk across his lips; _maybe feeding people I like can be number two on the list_.

He met Maria at the rough table outside the bar with a smile and a finished omelet. Feeding Maria was a delight -- she laughed even when she was worried, smiled even as she glanced over his shoulder to see if Mimi was swaying down the drive. 

When her bouncer burst out the front door to tell her Mimi had been found, he pressed a kiss behind her ear and reveled in the warm, sweet smell of her before she raced off.

He drove to Sander's and got started with work for the day. Around lunch, he snagged some old receipt paper, the pink lines running down it in parallel lines, and scribbled: "10 Things That Make Michael Guerin Happy."

> #1: Cooking For People I like
> 
> #2: Feeding People I Like
> 
> #3: NumPy And All Of The Libraries I Don't Have To Write In Python Because Of It
> 
> #4: Black Holes

He was elbow deep in a 1957 Chevy whose usually conscientious original owner had lent it to a teenaged grandnephew and found it needed some tumbleweeds removed from the undercarriage when he thought: _number 5 should be 'Fixing Things.'_

He ate some black beans out of a tin for lunch, doodling around the edges of the receipt. He realized he was using the same pen he'd lent Alex. If he was making a list of things he _didn't_ like, the US Air Force would be right at the top of the list. But unheated beans would be pretty high on there too. It's just -- they filled him up, they were $.50 a can at Walmart, and it wasn't like he needed more. 

Being full was good enough for him.

_You deserve nice things_ , echoed in his head. _Isobel is an annoying busybody_ he thought back as hard as he could, on the off chance it was Isobel _actually_ trying to get inside his head from a distance. That had never happened before, he was as alone in his own mind as he was in every other part of his life, but if it _did_ start, she'd be sure to be annoying about it.

_Number six should be: My Family._

He rolled himself under a jacked-up truck, old skateboard tight against his back, original owner's wheel-base signature still legible to the only person in the world to have it memorized. Sanders had offered, oh, a hundred or so times, to buy him a real mechanic's creeper. But he'd paid Alex Manes five good dollars for this skateboard when his Dad had forced him to sell all of his things before going to bootcamp and he was going to fucking _die_ before he gave it up.

_Alex_. The thought came clear and bright as desert daylight. _Alex should be number 7._

His eyes burned and his stomach clenched and he was glad no one else could see him where he lay under the truck. He'd -- he'd managed to make it 18 whole hours without thinking about the way Alex's eyes had gleamed in the sunset, telling him he loved him. He'd managed to keep from re-feeling the heartbreak when Alex stepped back away from him, slipping away from his touch.

_Always first to run_.

_But he hadn't been, had he?_ Lately. _Lately_ , Alex had been coming by. Always with an excuse, always with a plausible reason. He'd been polite and focused and so tightly clenched he could be making diamonds in his guts and between his perfect molars.

Michael scribbled the name down and shoved the receipt in his back pocket where his ass hung off the skateboard.

Liz let him know she didn't need him in the lab that night and knowing Maria would be working at the bar until closing, he worked late after dark. He needed the hours. Too much time doing alien lab-work with Liz, not enough actually earning bean-and-beer money. Also, Sander's had a dial-up computer in his office and Michael had realized he could refactor his internal search algorithm from radix sort to a binary search tree if he just used the astral numbering system NASA had just revamped. He wouldn't have the benefit of an IDE to check his work, but he could sketch out a text update and maybe he could probably install PyCharm on the bar's computer if he needed to. He'd just have to explain what "PyCharm" was to Maria. _Maybe she'll let me use the computer during closing hours_.

He had pancakes for dinner from a box of mix he'd bought months ago, when he'd thought Alex might stay some morning. He'd stashed the mix and the syrup in the upper shared cabinet after Alex had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with him outside of the sheets. He was wondering if he'd read the man's never-spoken intentions right, given his more recent behavior.

He used the hotplate in Sander's office, watching his code push update on the site as slow as cold syrup. _Somehow I don't think GitHub was tested on rural internet speeds_ he grumbled to himself. He heated up a slim bottle of agave syrup on the hotplate, a little saucepan of water steaming it warm and tart.

As he waited for the pan to heat and the syrup to cool off of boiling, he searched for the Mescalero Apache Facebook page on his phone. He didn't see any language posts lately, so he scrolled back. And back. And back. Every scroll took long seconds to load and he began to realize how long Alex must have been looking, searching for something, some _connection_. 

He got it, though _._ He thought about how long he'd wait, what he'd give, to learn a single word of his ancestral language.

He finally found a non-English post, in between self-defense classes clip-art fliers and charity runs with smiling Apache teenagers and anti-opioid posts with big DEA logos: 

> Nzhú naa’éjidiłte  
>  _take good care of yourself_

Michael took a screenshot, then decided that was too low-effort. He typed it out, transcribing it on his phone, the pancakes nearly burning as he tried to find the one letter that the font made look like a weird T but was actually a modified L. He texted:

> Michael: Nzhú naa’éjidiłte -> take good care of yourself
> 
> Michael: liz said she didn't need me in the lab tonight, I'm getting a little more work done
> 
> Alex: ‘ixéhe
> 
> Alex: You know you can come to the lab just to be social. You don't need to earn your keep.
> 
> Michael: Pot. Kettle.
> 
> Alex: [🙄](https://emojipedia.org/face-with-rolling-eyes/)
> 
> Michael: Ah, the only truly universal language xD
> 
> Alex: xD

He _had_ thought about getting his coding project set-up at the awful boarding school Alex had opened up for them, using the hardware there. But it was government owned. He trusted Alex, would always trust Alex, but Alex could get used just like anyone else could. He'd rather keep his own research separate. _Also, it would feel like charity and that's not what I want from Alex_.

He took screenshots of all of the other 17 Facebook posts with translated words, in case Alex used some or wanted more practice. Then he ate his pancakes and his warm syrup and felt full in a way that was different than he'd felt in -- well, a while. _Number eight should be: eating pancakes._ He pulled it out and wrote in number 8:

> #1: Cooking For People I like
> 
> #2: Feeding People I Like
> 
> #3: NumPy And All Of The Programming Libraries I Don't Have To Write In Python Because Of It
> 
> #4: Black Holes
> 
> #5: Fixing Things
> 
> #6: My Family
> 
> #7: Alex Manes
> 
> #8: Eating Pancakes

He couldn't think of two more. He took the box with him and the syrup as he packed up to head back to the Wild Pony's parking lot.

When he rolled-up after closing, there was a light on in the Airstream. His heart overflowed, hot like syrup overheating. _Alex_. 

He imagined him, sitting in the front seat, ready to tell him again, and again, and again -- as many times as he needed to hear it -- that he loved him. In that same soft, direct, perfect voice. _Alex. Alex. Finally, Alex._

Maria's dark hair flashed in the passenger seat where she was sitting, bare feet up on the dash, and he felt -- hope and disappointment and fear and disgust at himself. He shouldn't be imagining Alex when Alex wasn't his -- _though he wants to be yours, finally, again, after all this time --_ and he absolutely shouldn't be dating Maria if he wanted it to be someone else he was coming home to. 

He pulled into park and leaned his forehead against the thrice-re-wrapped wheel, letting the leather of it dig into his forehead.

_Why can't I fix this?_

He gave himself one breath, two breaths; three. He gave himself three hand-clenches on each side, then a short, sharp breath and he was moving, forcing himself out of the truck and into the Airstream with a smile.

He had planned half-a-sentence on the walk to the steps, something like: "Maria, we need to talk, because I did something wrong --" but he only got as "Maria --" when she was in his arms, laughing and smiling, hand in his hair, and it had been all day, since breakfast, since anyone had touched him and his body sagged into hers. Her other hand slid around his waist to tuck firmly into his back pocket, fingers brushing against his list. He jerked away from her, hands up between them.

He forced himself to say to her wide eyes: "Maria, can we talk?"

She frowned and scanned around for a place to sit. He realized with a pang that they'd never hungout in his space, that he'd never showed her how he lived, how to live around him. _Why can't I fix this_ , he began and then corrected himself, _I'm going to fix this._

_I'm_ _going_ _to._

He jerked his head outside -- "Out there okay?"

She nodded slowly, waiting for him to head out first, following with a clink. As he sat, he glanced back and saw she was holding two cut-glass shot glasses between her fingers and a bottle of the good bourbon by the neck. _Date night plans_ he thought with a wince. _Celebration of Mimi being back, you jerk._

He sat, settling his black Stetson on the bench beside him, and looked at her -- she looked tired and overjoyed and worried and radiant.

"How's Mimi?" he started and she cocked her head.

"Good, really good. Doesn't know where she is, how long she was gone, she had these cool boots that she's never owned before so there's something up. But I don't think that's what you wanted to ask me."

He worked his jaw, looking down at the table, picking at a splinter in the rough-cut wood surface. He could bring a sander out here next weekend, smooth this down for her. _If she lets you inside the property line again after this_.

"I -- I don't have words for this," he said, mind blanking, the dull roar of something like blood, something like explosions rising inside his ears, "I've never --" he shifted, hearing the receipt paper in his back pocket. He pulled it out, shoving it at her.

She held it up, trying to read it by the dangling fairy lights.

"Nzhú -- Michael, is this a code? Is this in Diné? I don't speak --"

He slipped two fingers between hers, turning it around.

"Alex came by the yard last night," he started, "He had this therapy homework. He was supposed to list 10 things that made him happy --"

"I'm glad he's getting support. I didn't know Alex was in therapy." Maria said.

Michael chuffed a laugh: "Gosh, Alex Manes not being forthcoming with the people who love him. News at 11." He closed his eyes, taking a breath and rubbing the side of his hand across his eyes.

"You're into programming?" Maria asked lightly before her eyes caught and held on one. She read it once. Again. Another time. Michael figured it wasn't the one about pancakes.

"I fucked up, Maria," he said, without looking at her. "I got this started with you, pushed for this good thing with you, without actually --"

Maria raised betrayed eyes. "You said you two were over."

"I did." Michael said, misery dragging his voice deeper.

" _Alex_ said you two were over."

"I'm sure he did."

"You both _lied_ to me," Maria said, slapping the receipt down on the rough table between them before bracing herself to stand. "You _lied_ to me and put me in a position where --" her slim hand flew to her mouth. "Did Alex, does Alex --" she took a breath, looking him square in the face, emotions pushed back and down. Somewhere they were curdling and raw, but he didn't get to see those anymore. He'd lost the right. 

Her voice was cool when she said: "I notice I'm not on this list."

"You were the first one I was thinking of, with the first two."

"A girlfriend isn't just someone you like cooking for and feeding," Maria said, a tiny softness moving across her face, "Friends do that for each other too."

"Not in my experience." Michael said and Maria sagged forward a little, elbows flexing with the weight on her shoulders before she forced her spine straight again. "Well, we'll fix that. Maybe in a few weekends, come by and I'll make you breakfast as a thank you."

Michael frowned, "A thank you for what?"

Maria closed her eyes: "You've -- you've tried to be a good friend, Michael. Fixing the sign, offering to stay here while my Mom was missing --"

"I really haven't," he started. 

She held up a hand, "And I think people have been taking that, taking you, for granted for too long. This whole situation is a jerk move and I'm freaking furious about it, but -- this might be a sign we'd be better as actual friends."

Michael shook his head, not able to have her be _nice_ to him after this, and he said: "There's something else. I should have told you, someone should have told you, a long time ago. Maybe I should wait, but -- you deserve to know."

She gave a hard laugh. "Something worse than two of my friends letting me get between them because they're too squeamish about feelings to share basic facts?"

He closed his eyes. "It might be."

She sat back down, slowly, slowly, hands flat on the table, eyes steady.

"What is it?"

He lifted his hand, pulling the receipt into the air with his powers. It drifted over to the fairy lights, spiraling it up to curve around the round lightbulbs, a flash of white snaking and winding in the bare desert wind, before it paused, still as starlight high above their heads, then slowly fell down between them, settling flat on the table, Apache words facing up.

When Michael caught her eyes, he said: "In 1947, I crash landed here with my family, who were refugees from a terrible war. Literally crash landed."

"I got that," she breathed. "So you're--"

"An alien. We woke up 50 years later, which is why I'm not all fugly."

"And does Alex --"

Michael laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I never got to tell him. He figured it out all on his own."

"He always was the brainiest of us," she said, and Michael's heart hurt. Then she flashed a look up at him. "Though if astrophysics and programming at your hobbies, I think your friendship isn't the only thing about you most of us have overlooked."

She took a long breath: "So, you crash landed. And," she paused, "your family. Are they -- " she looked at him hard, "Were they pushed into the foster system too? Do you know where they are?"

And he nodded. He didn't believe in outing people, but Max was nearly dead and might not come back. _Dead men's secrets do no one any good._ "Max was with me."

She nodded: "So, you, Max, and Isobel." 

_Of course she would guess._

"Anyone else? Alex?"

He covered his mouth with his hand. "I can't tell you anyone else's secrets but I can confirm Alex is not an alien. Definitely not."

"Why definitely?"

"Well, for one thing, he can't drink straight acetone. With all the nail polish he wore, even if his bastard father kept it a secret, he would have figured it out back in high school." He looked to the side. "There's more, a lot more. Secrets and government coverups and violence and genocide and I," he choked for a second, throat rebelling, body forcing himself to stop when his mind couldn't, "I don't think I can talk about it? Right now? I'll, I'll try to, when I can, when," and her hand was on his wrist, the little bit of smooth skin below his flannel. 

"Secrets can bury us. You know that. But they take weight to share. So, on your own time. Just tell me: is what's going on with my mother, does it, does it have to do with you?"

Michael shook his head hard enough it made his brain rattle: "No, God no, I don't know, but if there was a hint, any idea that what we are were hurting you, you have to believe Maria, you have to know --"

She held up a hand. "Ok, but I had to ask."

"Yeah," Michael said, realizing his fingers were shaking. He tucked them away in his lap. "And I'll get out of your hair, drive the Airstream out tonight --"

Maria shook her head, hair bouncing. "I'm not going to keep you if you need to leave, but you're fine to stay until daylight. You look upset and it won't hurt either of us if you stay another night, rather than risking driving distracted."

He looked up at her then, meeting stern brown eyes with a grateful look: "I really don't deserve your kindness."

Maria shook her head, standing and brushing off her leather skirt, gathering the glasses and the bourbon and holding them against her chest. "No one should get what they deserve. That's too harsh for nearly anyone. Kindness is about who we are as people, and how we wish the world was, not what other people deserve."

She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, mouth hot in the cool night air. "Sleep well, Michael. See you around."

"See you around, Maria." He whispered to the silent night air, the sound of the Pony's door shutting and locking loud across the flat plain of the moonlit desert.

Before he stumbled his way back to the Airstream, he pulled out his phone and typed out a text to Alex:

> Michael: náánduustesét -> I will see you again.

Then he went inside, wrote down two more things that made him happy, and tried to sleep, body tight, shoulders aching and back stiff.

\--

30 minutes later, Alex slammed the door of the Airstream open, gasping:

"What the _hell_ Michael?"

Michael sat bolt upright, tense muscles screaming at the sudden movement. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to figure out what was going on.

Alex was hanging onto the door frame, face red, shoulders moving in massive, uncontrolled heaves.

"Alex, what --"

"'Náánduustesét'!" Alex hissed, shoving the door closed behind him. "'Náánduustesét,' Michael!"

Michael frowned, trying to think of the translation. "I'll see you soon?"

"Of all the -- " Alex scrubbed his hands over his face, forcing his breathing slower, sinking into the small space between the kitchen counter and the bed, hand flapping out to grasp Michael's ankle as tight as an ankle brace. "If I was Liz, I would call you a gringo tonta and cabrón. But since I _don't know how to say that in Mescalero Apache_ , what I am going to say is that _words_ have _meanings_ , Michael. _Real, actual meanings!_ "

Michael pulled his legs over the side over the bed, Alex keeping a grip on his ankle even as he growled: "Those are the words you say before someone leaves home for a long journey _with no plan to return_." His voice was getting smaller, more and more choked. He took a deep breath as Michael's left hand found its way to his shoulder, hair tickling the back of his hand: "They're the last words my Mom said to me before she left."

Michael nearly poured himself into the space next to Alex, pulling Alex who was as much liquid as man straight into his lap, Alex's hands grasping at his chest, hooking under his arms, tracing through his hair and down the long, shaking line of his spine.

He said it all in a rush, needing Alex to _know_ before anything happened _:_ "I told Maria. I told Maria about you and I and aliens and that I couldn't be with her -- I'm moving back to the yard tomorrow morning, she didn't want me driving when I was so upset --"

"That's Maria," Alex said into Michael's neck, pressing himself ever closer, "Taking care of everyone even when her heart is breaking."

Michael frowned, voice steadying: "Why do you think her heart is breaking?"

Alex dug his forehead into Michael's sternum for a moment before pulling back to look him dead in the eyes in the reflected moonlight: "Because losing you is heartbreaking. My heart's been breaking for 10 years, every single time I walked away, every time I hurt you. It broke when I went to basic and at the end of every visit in between and at Caulfield and at the yard and _every single time_ , Michael. I know _for a fact_ that Maria's heart is breaking." He took a breath: "But I'm willing to risk it one more time. One more time and one more time and one more after that if I need to. Always one more for you."

"I only need one," Michael said, "I only need one more, Alex."

Alex moved in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, a man of shadow and light in the small quiet space. "Are you certain?"

Michael nodded, hand scrabbling under the bed, yanking out the receipt and calling his phone over, light on, to hover over them, shining down.

> 10 Things That Make Michael Guerin Happy.
> 
> #1: Cooking For People I like
> 
> #2: Feeding People I Like
> 
> #3: NumPy And All Of The Programming Libraries I Don't Have To Write In Python Because Of It
> 
> #4: Black Holes
> 
> #5: Fixing Things
> 
> #6: My Family
> 
> #7: Alex Manes
> 
> #8: Eating Pancakes
> 
> #9: Making Alex Manes Happy
> 
> #10: Loving Alex Manes

Alex choked out a laugh. "You should have heard what my therapist had to say about my list," he said, voice hushed. "All kinds of words."

"Yeah?" Michael said, letting the phone's flashlight turn off, leaving them in the hushed dark of the Airstream. 

"Yeah." Alex said, "And I'll tell you them all just as soon as you want to hear them."

Michael felt a smirk work its way across his lips as he shifted, Alex's weight held just, just up, just above his jean-clad hips, breaths crowding the air between them.

"I don't think I want to hear any more words tonight. Maybe just three." 

Alex ground down, the slick movement making Michael gasp into the spare space between their lips: 

Alex breathed: "I love you, Michael Guerin."

"I love you too, Alex Manes. I'm so happy I get to love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't actually know if "náánduustesét" has the cultural context I gave it in this fic. I'm used to being a novice speaker of language and messing up all the time like Michael does in this fic -- I'm not sure how else to explore lots of languages other than be humble about getting things wrong that native speakers find easy -- so if someone happens to know, please let me know. The phrase, with that spelling, only appears on the Mescalero Facebook page and I wasn't able to find other clear translations.
> 
> But I had this misunderstanding of cultural context be the main hook around which their relationship shifted because it is a big deal, messing with other people's languages. You will make mistakes like Michael does, and getting used to responding to them and owning up to them and expecting them is part of discovering a culture you're not a part of.
> 
> There will be a third chapter of smut, where they make a new list of things they like. also possibly a backdated chapter of Alex talking with his therapist about his list.
> 
> Also, comments are life! Thank you so much to all the wonderful commenters!


	3. ‘ixéhe {Thank you}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Alex make a new list together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, omg jule1122 wrote a totally awesome fic that diverges from this one after Chapter 1 and I was so excited to see it. Please go read it and show some love: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717407
> 
> Second: Thank you all so much for all of your lovely comments! They are so wonderful. Thank you so much.

Alex leaned back on his stool at the Wild Pony to whisper in Michael's ear, nose brushing the stubble on his cheek: "Want to get out of here?"

He was so close he heard that little hitch of breath. Then: "I'll say goodbye to Maria and then meet at the truck?"

Alex nodded, pressing his lips to the little soft spot behind Michael's ear before bracing his hand on his knee and levering him out from under the bar. He caught Maria's eye and waved as she smiled a goodbye to him. The first two weeks after her and Michael's break-up, Alex had kept-up a strict twice-weekly breakfast date with Maria. They were mostly ok now, but Michael had been working on helping Maria renovate the rooms over the bar and probably wanted to check-in with her on them.

Alex refused to look to see if anyone had noticed him touching Michael. He'd been working on projection this week with Lo; she'd started-out calling it "fortune telling" but he kept cracking-up, thinking of Maria, so she'd gone back to calling it by the technical term. Alex closed his eyes, grateful for the crunchy-quiet coolness of the parkinglot, the night air like that first moment you jump into a pool -- a shock and a relief all at once.

That sense of being watched, judged, he'd really been working on dissecting when that was _real_ and when it was _real inside his head only_. Thankfully, out here, even his brain couldn't make him feel uncomfortable. Not with all those stars above him.

He headed over to the truck, flipping the gate down and hopping up, letting his prosthetic hang a little bit above the ground, taking some pressure from a long day off his stump. Alex posted his arms back behind his hips, looking up long and hard at the night sky.

Michael had shown him, the weekend before, how to find Antar. _Look for Scorpio, then look for the brightest star in the center._

He'd been able to see it then on the campsite they'd rented on the Mescalero reservation, when the sky was so, so clear. Out here, night blind from even the Pony's low lights, he couldn't even begin to trace it.

But he knew it was up there.

His therapy stuff felt like that sometimes too, like, he knew what clarity would show him, but it was all a hazy mess sometimes. He tucked a grin under his teeth; Michael might say _my hazy mess_. He was sweet like that sometimes; more and more lately.

The man himself swaggered out the front door of the Pony, flipping his hat over his hovering curls. Alex saw the moment his scanning eyes caught sight of Alex and his step quickened. Alex's pulse followed-it. It was a little like being hunted, that look in Michael's eyes; a little like being caught and glad of it.

Michael grinned, slipping between Alex's spread knees, hat shielding them both as Alex kicked a heel behind his knees and gripped his hips. 

"This your plan for the rest of the night?" Michael murmured, space between their lips barely more than a breath's worth. 

Alex hummed and shook his head: "Nah, I've got a surprise for you,"

Michael's eyebrows lifted, just a little. Alex could tell he was pleased; it wasn't often someone gave Michael Guerin a present. _Working on it,_ Alex thought to himself.

But he said instead: "Back at my place. You ok staying over?" And there it was, that secret pleased look. It made Michael look so young and Alex's stomach clenched, warm and yearning for the man he held gentle in his arms.

"Yeah," Michael breathed, swaying towards him and Alex met him in the middle, lips against Michael's for a soft second before licking inside, tasting the one beer they'd shared, nails scratching a quiet rhythm on the seam of Michael's jeans.

Alex took a deep breath and pulled away -- before Michael chased and Alex felt himself melting into him, butter in the sun, mercury on the grill, cherry-chocolate on Michael's lips.

"Home," Alex gasped out, barely, " _surprise_."

He felt Michael chuckle against his lips and then felt him pull away. He opened dazzled eyes to see him grinning, offering a hand for Alex to brace against to hop down. He did, fingers tightening around Michael's just enough to let him know he was known, then letting go to get to his seat before he lost his entire daily ration of willpower to those whiskey-light eyes.

They had begun a game, when they were driving. It was an old game, a game Alex had started the first time Michael had given him a ride home on the slow, strange summer before basic. Picking him up at the museum, driving out to where the grasses grew bison-belly high and the night sky was uninterrupted by light; driving him home two blocks away from his house, letting him out without a kiss lest the neighbors narc on them both to Jesse Manes.

The game went like this. Alex held Michael's right hand while he drove with his left. He'd trace his pinky down the outside of Michael's pinky, then wait for him to do the same. Pad of his ring finger along the lines and callouses of Michael's ring finger. Middle to middle, pointer to pointer, thumb to thumb. Then again, but the inside, body clenching and breath quickening with every sweep towards his palm. Then a hand to the thigh, tracing quick, sure lines; then the forearm.

Alex had thought for a long time had thought that if he had any skill with clay, with computer modeling, he could recreate perfectly every square inch of Michael Guerin's hands. He'd traced them in his mind, when he fell asleep. 

But in the two weeks they'd been officially back together, he'd discovered so many tiny differences, so many soft wrongs. He learned the way Michael's hand curled around a wrench, around the ball of the handle to his front door, around the edge of his granite countertops as Alex worked him from behind.

He held a whole universe in his hands. 

They got to the house and Michael parked beside Alex's truck, squeezing his hand once before heading towards the door. Alex had given him a key; he knew it was a stereotype, and also that Michael didn't need one, but after spending a third of his lifetime running, he wanted to be clear about his intentions.

Michael pulled it out, jingling it on its carabiner and tapping the door open.

He flicked on the light as Alex followed, closing and bolting the door before slipping past Michael to open the linen closet door, reaching back behind the towels for a bright blue box about the length and width of his forearm.

He heard Michael approach and turned around, opening the box and watching his face.

Confusion first. Then a glance into Alex's smiling eyes, then back down at the scroll-rolled piece of white printer paper, with a deep blue silk ribbon tied around it.

"Surprise," Alex said, jiggling the box a little.

Michael reached in, unlooping the bow and unrolling the paper. Then he began to grin.

The top of it read: "10 Things That Make Michael Guerin **and** Alex Manes Happy."

Michael's eyes were sparkling. "And you were keeping this in the closet --"

Alex smirked: "Long habit. And, well, with what I'm thinking we'll use it for, I didn't really want to put it on the fridge."

Michael sidled that last little bit closer to him, eyes shining in the low light of the hallway. With any other man, Alex would have felt trapped, fists clenching, ready-willing-and-able to fight. But with Michael he just smiled and backed himself up against the door jam, swinging the door all the way to the hallway wall with a soft swoop and pressing the molding between his wingbones, along the long line of his spine.

Michael followed. "And what were you thinking we'd put on that list?"

Alex tilted his head, tugging Michael's hips to his own by his belt-loop, Michael holding the in the spare space left to it between their chests.

Alex bit his lip. "I was thinking we could play a game. Just like last time." 

Michael's eyes lit up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Alex said, "My first thing that makes me happy would be," he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the same spot he'd chosen back in the Wild Pony, "Kissing you where other people can see."

Michael pulled back a little, eyebrows up. "I thought that worried you."

Alex shrugged. "It did. It does. But it feels good to push past that, to do something that feels like progress and that you like too."

"Oh, I do like it," Michael said, pressing his hips just that little bit closer.

"So," Alex said. "What would you put on the list?"

"Hmm," Michael said, pressing a kiss against Alex's cheekbone, his temple, down his neck, across his clavicle. "I think," he murmured, hot mouth against Alex's jugular, "We should take this someplace more horizontal."

Alex huffed out a laugh but intertwined their fingers, backing down the hallway and pulled Michael along with him.

Things cooled a little as they went through their nighttime routines, the list waiting for them on the nightstand as they brushed teeth and cared for the prosthetic, stripped off their jeans and shirts and them into the same hamper, room lit only by the bedside table lamp. But this was a different kind of intimacy, one Alex had never had before and whose daily reality filled up a long-emptied vessel inside of him.

Once they were safe and warm under the covers, Alex slipped his left leg over Michael's and pulled list towards him. Michael twiddled his fingers and his well-loved copy of Connie Willis's _Bellwether_ glided along with a pencil over to them from the bookcase in the corner.

"So, Kissing in Public." He wrote down.

Alex nodded, fingers trailing their way down Michael's side, soft and sure of their welcome. He looped around, fingertips grazing the soft hair below is naval as Michael sucked in a hard breath.

"Is 'Sex' too big a category?" Alex hummed. "We could get more specific."

"How about," Michael started, slipping a hand between them to graze his thumb across Alex's nipple. "Touching you anywhere I want."

"That's a good one," Alex said, pressing his palm against Michael's ribs, feeling his breath coming in, strong and steady.

"Your turn," Michael said, brushing his thumb along the underside of Alex's pec, than circling around until he was sweeping across again.

Alex tried to keep his voice steady, remembering his thought from the Airstream. "Blowjobs before breakfast,"

He heard the rumbled of Michael's chuckle before it met the air.

"That's a good one," Michael said as Alex's hand crept lower, the back of his knuckles just barely connecting with Michael's half-hard cock.

He could hear his heart beating faster and it drove something deep and warm inside of him to know it, what was happening inside of Michael's body, that he was making him feel this good.

Michael continued: "How about," he paused as Alex reached down to grip him once, firmly, before raising his hand to his mouth and licking his palm to ease the way.

" _Holy shit_ , Alex," he gasped as Alex grinned and kept going.

"You were saying?" Michael closed his eyes, frowning a little as he tried to retrace his thoughts. "Ok, three of these in a row so we can get to the main course faster. We both love sleepy bedtime sex, we both love watching the other get off, and we both love sleeping in the same bed."

"All true," Alex said, working his thumb around the head of Michael's cock as the other man threw his head back, arching his body golden and Alex's up into the lambent lamplight.

"Alright," Alex said, shifting so he was braced above Michael, thighs gripping hard thighs, hand moving slick between them as Michael held onto his back for dear life.

"Nearly there," he said, tasting the sweat of Michael's throat. "I love the way you taste when you're ready for me," Michael made a high, keening sound, eyes shut and lips seeking Alex's. Alex kissed him, moving in a hard rhythm, his own hips beginning to move with it, cock hard and untouched against his stomach. "I adore the sounds you make just for me," Michael hissed between his teeth, hand slipping down Alex's back to press their hips together, Alex's hand wrapping around both of them as Alex lost his train of thought as their bodies moved together. It was coming fast, minds whiting out, when he heard himself say:

"I love how safe you make me feel."

"Always, _always_ , Alex, I --"

"I've got you, Michael, I've got you, let go," and Michael did, voice high, Alex swallowing every single sound he could before his own orgasm sliced through him, sliced him open and he could let it, let it take him somewhere else entirely because he knew Michael would be there, would keep him safe until he settled back to earth.

He came to with his arms wrapped under Michael's strong shoulders, Michael's hands gripping across his back, their breathing steady and their stomachs sticky.

"I _don't_ love going to bed sticky," Alex murmured and Michael chuckled, calling a t-shirt from the laundry pile over to them and giving Alex a second to prop himself up before he began cleaning up their mess.

Alex reached over to where the paper, pencil and book had slipped to the floor, Michael gripping his hand to help him keep his balance. He filled-in the lines they'd already agreed on.

"Just one left." He said.

Michael looked-up at him. "Maybe something about sharing our lives? Or learning about each other's cultures together?"

"Maybe something bigger. 10 is such a big number. 10 years, 10 things that make us happy,"

Michael curled up, kissing him sweetly before laying back, curls haloing out behind him on the blue pillows.

"How about just -- being in love?"

Alex smiled.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's perfect."

He wrote it in and set on the bedside table. The paper hovered once his fingers left it, slipping under the bedroom door.

" _Where_ are you putting that?" Alex asked Michael suspiciously as he turned off the light and they divided up the two duvets (they'd discovered in their first week that Michael was a coverhog and buying a second blanket was cheaper than fighting about it).

He could hear Michael's grin in the dark of the night. "It's my surprise, I get to display it where I want to."

Alex rolled his eyes. "I think we need to work on boundaries."

"Hmph," Michael grumped, but then stretched his arm up and over so Alex could tuck himself into his side. "Maybe."

"Definitely," Alex corrected, the sternness of the statement undermined by the massive yawn that caught him in the middle of it. Michael shared the yawn and then pressed a sleepy kiss to Alex's crown.

Alex's body was settling down, finding the soft spaces in the covers and tucking his feet into the blankets when he heard Michael say: "This is, this is a lot more. Than I'd hoped for. Than I thought we'd get."

Alex blinked, eyes suddenly damp and fingers tingling until he found Michael's hand to hold.

"Me too, Michael. I'm just -- I'm really grateful. That we get to do this." He took a breath. "‘ixéhe, Michael."

"‘ixéhe right back at you, love." Michael pressed a last kiss to Alex's sweat-dampened temple and they slipped together into the soft shared safety of sleep.

\--

The next morning, in the midst of an alien emergency being hashed out in the living room, Isobel snuck off to the kitchen to raid Alex's fridge. There was a white piece of paper with increasingly sloppy handwritten pinned right to the center of the freezer door. She glanced once at the contents; then gave it another long, hard look. 

> 1\. Kissing in public
> 
> 2\. Touching you anywhere I want
> 
> 3\. Blowjobs before breakfast
> 
> 4\. Sleepy bedtime sex
> 
> 5\. Watching you get off
> 
> 6\. Sleeping (!) together
> 
> 7\. The way you tastes
> 
> 8\. The sounds you make
> 
> 9\. How safe you make me feel
> 
> 10\. Being in love

Cheeks flushed, she pulled the magnet off, turning the paper blank-side-out using just her powers, and then snapped the magnet back into place.

She returned to the living room, a smile across her face and a bounce in her step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore Connie Willis's Bellwether. I love all of her stuff. She's such a great sci fi writer.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the conclusion of this! If you haven't already, I'd love to know what your 10 Things That Make You Happy During Quarantine are!

**Author's Note:**

> Fado's is real and their fish and chips is second only to their shepherd's pie. So -- if Alex's therapist made him do this again, what would you put on his list?
> 
> Also, for accountability, here's my own list for myself (the context was: list 10 things that make you happy you can do during quarantine): gardening, patting my cats, baking bread, making things with my hands (this week: candles, brownies, re-stringing my loom), hanging out with my writing group friends on Discord (we have 7pm calls every night during shelter-in-place), watching cooking videos with my partner (Claire from Bon Apetíte is great), planning road trips for after this is over (I'm going to drive to freaking Wyoming once no one can stop me), building my janky handmade hotub (it's made from a horse trough, a garbage can, and entirely too much charcoal; it has yet to work), writing, reading.
> 
> cadezmuse makes a good point: what are your 10 things you can do during quarantine that make you happy?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Trying to Translate You Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717407) by [jule1122](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jule1122/pseuds/jule1122)




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